As these black clad brothers retirethere is no convivial conversationover cigars and brandy by roaring fire,they return to their worktheir continued encounterwith His divine self.

The rain, in sheets, lashes the rooftopsand the wind, whipped up, attemptsto penetrate the panes in windowswhich rattle in their framesand give rise to the feelingthat this is a fortressin the great battle beyond.

These men in humble habitsare warriors for a world we rarely seeyet they dwell in for life.Each worldly distraction,each body afflicted with illnessor the fragility of mortalityis but a speck in the grand planof the eternity they bear witness toand becomes nothing morethan fodder for their prayerswhich continue to riselike the obsidian winged companionof their Holy founding father.

He who took the firewhich was kindled in the Eastand built around it a schoolthat we may too learnhow to fan the embersembedded in our soulsthat they may burst into flamefor Him, who callseach and every discipleto be a monk in ordinary lifewith singularity of focusto prefer nothingto the love of Christ.